


Skyfall is Where We Start

by homosociallyyours, rayvanfox



Series: Let the Sky Fall [2]
Category: James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:58:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/pseuds/homosociallyyours, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/pseuds/rayvanfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond starts to wonder about a certain director of Q branch, who has already beat him to the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skyfall is Where We Start

**Author's Note:**

> The introductory monologues to start off this roleplay series.   
> Bond is written by rayvanfox.  
> Q is written by homosociallyyours.

**Bond:**

“A Brave New World...”

It really was, because everything opened up for me after that. The combination of meeting (and verbally sparring) with Q and Silva's little calculated flirtation—which succeeded, not in making me worry about the vulnerability of my sexuality, but in reminding me of its openness—caused an influx of memories and suppositions I hadn't been looking for. The possibilities stretched before me even wider than before.  
However, the novelty of the opportunity to explore said world was not lost on me. I'm too, I don't know, rugged to be assigned missions that call for anything beyond hetero-seduction, but that doesn't mean I'm against a little gay sex now and again. I've been known to indulge, both in experimentation as a youth, and more recently in a quick no-strings fuck behind a gay bar when the need arises and my work is too demanding for anything more involved. Men are handy that way, much more low maintenance. Not that women can't be as well, or that I don't appreciate maintaining something with a woman when it's called for, and for as long as is feasible. The problem is, it's rarely feasible for very long. And some of them aren't forgiving of that.

Point is, I'd forgotten the seductions of a masculine energy, and I was surprised and delighted when one seemed directed towards me. Especially a coy one that was clearly up for a bit of sparring. And who was oddly beautiful, as well. Not to mention one who quirked his pretty red lips at me while taking the piss. I could have fairly kissed him right there in the gallery.

The subtle heat he brought to our conversation scorched even hotter than Moneypenny's, truth be told. Even if at the outset it looked as if it might freeze over. Not that I didn't enjoy Eve’s shave and a haircut, two bits, when she came to my (with my) aid in Macau, but when she dropped into my head the idea of that fine-boned, quick-witted young man flying out to share my suite it made for a certain frisson that I wasn't expecting to hit me so hard. Literally.

Moneypenny tries a little too much to get my goat, with a full frontal attack at the outset. Q's snark is effortless, almost dazzling. And never hitting home in the same way twice. Dizzying. Makes things fun again. Which, after the wreck that was the stand at Skyfall, was desperately needed. He was the only one who didn't handle me with kid gloves, after. And honestly it made me want to catch him unawares for a hard fuck in gratitude. I was reasonably sure he'd be up for it, but I didn't want to presume.

Nor could I tell what he liked. Equal odds on him being a pillow queen and a dominating top. I think what I liked most about him was that I couldn't pin him down. But Lord, I was willing to try. And hopefully I’d be able to bring him to tears when I succeeded in doing so. And, to keep my track record of honesty intact, I might as well mention that after that, I hoped he'd split me in two. I needed to feel something other than grief, and both his cock and his pretty little arse were fast becoming top of the list.

I truly believe he copped on to my game quickly, but took pleasure in drawing it out as long as possible. Which, under any other circumstances, I would have enjoyed to the last drop, competing with him to see who could play the long game with the most patience. I can't tell you how much I love the thrill of the chase, especially when it takes the form of a slow stalk through tall grass. But not this time.  
This time I wanted instant gratification. And _someone_ was enjoying delaying it as much as possible. 

My voice started to have a consistent growl to it when I spoke to him. No matter what for. Made for frustrating work situations. And even more so that he seemed to like it. Because I may not be brilliant, but I know when someone is interested. He wasn’t being a tease, he simply wanted to make my life miserable for a time before giving in. I could smell it on him.

But he was good at the long game. Very good. In fact, he is good at everything he sets his mind to. He may be young, but he’s definitely smarter than every bleeding other person in MI6. Present company included. Not that I’d admit that to him. Things that obvious can be left unsaid.

The thing that galls me (and gets me all the hotter) is that he’s not just smart as a whip, he’s quick like one too. Clever. Sharp-tongued. The lashings I started to receive at work rivaled only those I imagined he’d give out in bed.

His slow torture was exacting and painfully focused. Tailored to my desire. I became unable to look away from his mouth. He started to be more expressive with it, if that were possible. He noticed I dragged my eyes down his neck. He started wearing his collar open. I brushed his bum with my hip when passing behind him. He stood so it was in my way, and my line of sight, as much as possible. I could have killed him nine ways from Sunday, but each one would have been so pleasurable his heart would’ve stopped first.

**Q:**

Bond. Exasperating, frustrating, distracting.

I've always been sharper than average when it came to reading the signs of attraction. Not only reading them, but knowing how to respond. Meeting my partner in kind.

Sometimes they're laid before me like lines of code, complex, certainly, but easy enough to unravel with just a bit of focus. I enjoy the mental handiwork it takes to undo a man whose attraction is like that. These men inevitably get caught out by the way they respond to my wit. They're always quick, lashing back at me as if they think they know what I have going on in my mind. I vary my speech, my tone, the words that I use. Occasionally it looks a bit like verbal peacocking, but I know they like it. I watch them fall into place, their desire simplified and readable. I wouldn't say I manipulate them, but some of them might. A few, yes. They'd huff and shake their heads, because they thought they had me figured out and never imagined it might work both ways.

Other times I read them as I would a city map, a perfect grid of intersecting desires that I can navigate freely. A turn here, a quick jog over, and I'm meeting my conquest where they wanted me most but never expected to find me. In spite of how much I loathed it in my youth, I appreciate that Mummy had me study dance. I learned how to use my body, gangly limbs and all, though of course I am careful with my knowledge. Guarded, really. I know when to unbutton my collar, loosen my tie. How to hold my cup of tea in a way that conveys confident vulnerability or quiet disdain. My ballet instructor once told me that real grace is most evident in how a dancer holds their hands. Taking my long fingers in hers, she stretched them, shaped them, had me watch in the mirror as she moved them expressively with the music. I know my body better than most men my age, and I understand how to use it. I can pin a man with a gaze or a bite of my lip.

And again, they often hate me for it. The ones who've mistaken me for a weak-kneed child, or a sharp mind inside a submissive body. Those men clench their fists and frown when they talk about me, because my submission is never easy. It's earned through hard work and diligence. A wit that matches my own.

Very few have met my challenge. And I admit that until Bond came stalking into my life like a prowling jungle cat, I had nearly given up hope of meeting anyone who could excite my physical and mental needs. At our first meeting, I could tell that he would be an excellent physical sparring partner. His face is hard, but expressive, and even in the state he was in, coming out of hiding to re-enter MI6, his body was clearly his to control.

It wasn’t until after we lost M, after Skyfall, that I realized Bond could meet me at my mental heights as well. I never offered him pity, and I never coddled him, and I saw that he appreciated that. I’d hear him giving back what I gave him, trying to best me verbally. He was flirting with me, I realized rather quickly.

And so I flirted back.

I took notice of the things he seemed to enjoy the most from me. First, physically. Like most men, he took immediate interest in my mouth and hands. His ice blue eyes would melt a little when I bit my lip or drummed my fingers, and I could almost watch the scenes playing out in his mind. Or so I thought, until I noticed that he mirrored me instead of responding predatorily, almost as though he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to dominate me or lie back and let me take the lead. Interest piqued, I exposed my throat and neck. I ran my fingers through my hair. I took to biting my lips so that they’d be flushed bright red when he came in to see me. He’d trail over me with his eyes, taking notice of every detail, and then he’d whip out a sharp-witted comment that would leave me scrambling to parry.

Mentally, he met my wit with grace and my snark with an ease that was almost upsetting to me. I have always taken it as a point of pride that, when I put my mind to it, I am more than capable of setting a clever man on his arse with a turn of phrase. And of course if that fails, I have a wide variety of technical tricks up my sleeve. Even those, however, seemed to leave Bond unfazed.

I decided to play the long game with Bond, something I don’t do lightly. First off, it’s a true challenge for me. I don’t need instant gratification, but there is something pleasing to me about getting what I want when I want it. If that smacks of petulance, then so be it. I’m able to delay until I can see the other man nearing his breaking point, ideally until I hear him groaning softly at the bend of my body or watch him swallow slowly and turn away when I speak.

Of course the real danger is that sometimes they do lose interest. Some men simply can’t handle the never ending back and forth. But Bond, oh Bond. If anyone could play forever it would have to be him.


End file.
